brick at him.
And yet, as hopeless as things seemed, Daniel found reason to hope. When he was hit by the brick, the man who helped him up was Robert Lawrence—Robert, who had been wounded at the very beginning of the outbreak, whom Daniel had rescued from one of the burning agency buildings and sent north along with his family to Standing Buffalo’s peaceful people. Daniel had wondered if his friend had survived or died of the gaping wound in his belly. Robert Lawrence was a true Christian and a leader among the peaceful Dakota. His sudden reappearance in Daniel’s life buoyed both men’s hopes.
And so, when they finally arrived at Mankato and were crowded into a hastily built prison just west of the city, Daniel joined Robert in praying for deliverance. They were among 303 men sentenced to die by the military court. But the Great Father in Washington had mercy. He delayed the impending execution and demanded evidence to review the cases. Throughout the fall of 1862 Daniel and his fellow prisoners waited while President Lincoln reviewed each case. When he was finished, the Great Emancipator reduced the number to be executed to forty. Daniel and Robert prayed for patience. They prayed for endurance. They prayed for their missionaries to come back to them.
On December 4 of 1862, four months after the uprising, a mob from Mankato threatened to overrun the camp and take justice into their own hands. The prisoners were moved out of tents to a more secure setting inside a low log building positioned on a huge vacant lot that sat between two houses in town. Unable to stand upright along the walls, the men huddled around fires or crouched shivering against the walls under the constant vigilance of three or sometimes four soldiers stationed through the middle of the building. Sickened by the smell of rotten food, unwashed bodies, and illness, the men began to lose heart.
The week before Christmas Daniel and Robert said little. A gallows was being constructed within eyesight of the prison. The pounding of hammers and nails and the scent of fresh-sawn wood filled the air. The forty condemned men were taken away to spend time with missionaries from various denominations. Daniel heard the guards say all but two accepted Christian baptism.
“All I can say,” Brady Jensen said when another soldier told him, “is if I see one of them strolling down them golden streets, there’s going to be murder in heaven.”
On the day of the executions, Daniel and Robert stood shoulder to shoulder, peering through a crevice in the log walls at the gallows. When the military drums pounded out the impending order to cut the rope holding the trapdoors shut beneath the men’s feet, Daniel looked away. He leaned his forehead against the rough log wall, wishing he could not hear the crash as those floors dropped away, the odd sigh that went up from the crowd of onlookers. Inside the prison it was deathly quiet for a long while.
Finally Daniel whispered hoarsely, “Do you think they really believed in Jesus? Or were they just agreeing that the white man’s God was more powerful than theirs?”
Robert sighed and shook his head. He looked at his young friend. “We will know when we get to that next place and see who is there.”
They learned how to accommodate the shackles that joined them together at the ankles so they could slide down the log wall of the prison building and sit without causing cramps in their legs. They did so now. Feeling suddenly cold, both men pulled their worn blankets over their heads. Clouds of moisture rose from the opening in his blanket when Daniel asked, “Now that they have had their revenge, do you think they will let the rest of us go?”
Robert grunted. “We can only pray so, my friend.”
Daniel closed his eyes to squeeze back the tears that welled up. He fought the lump rising in his throat. Robert was beginning to doubt. So was he. He was beginning to think they would never be free again.
He wasn’t ready. She was walking toward him down the path, and he almost panicked. He shouldn’t be here. Not now. Not yet. He glanced down at the greasy spots dribbling down the front of his shirt, the filth splashed across his thighs. He brushed his hand through his matted black hair. It had grown long these past few months. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d been near enough water to